


You indoctrinate republicans

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Actually Nothing But Porn, Anal Sex, Canon Era, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Sex, Waking Up In The Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:27:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The singular indulgent night they passed weeks ago was a mistake. Enjolras thought it would be kind: one night, then the matter finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You indoctrinate republicans

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever feel like writing porn, because your country undergoes an inauspicious election? Raise your hand
> 
> Thanks to my dear [barricadeur](http://barricadeur.tumblr.com) for reading first. Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com) about the state of society or your ongoing _West Wing_ emotions
> 
> Title from that time in the Brick: 
> 
> "What about me?" said Grantaire. "Here am I."  
> "You?"  
> "I."  
> "You indoctrinate republicans! you warm up hears in the name of principle!"  
> "Why not?"  
> "Are you good for anything?"  
> "I have a vague ambition in that direction," said Grantaire.  
> "You do not believe in anything."  
> "I believe in you."

Enjolras wakes in the early morning to Grantaire curled beside him, fast asleep. Grantaire’s disheveled dark hair falls across his eyes, and his mouth twitches as he dreams.

Enjolras sighs. The singular indulgent night they passed weeks ago was a mistake. He thought it would be kind: one night, then the matter finished. It proved not at all unpleasant; in fact, it was shockingly pleasurable.

Still, a mistake, because they cannot quite look each other in the eye, and some nights since, Grantaire has slipped in to sleep. In the morning Enjolras sends him away, but not before the sun has risen and pressed the point. It is an unhealthy habit, but he has indulged Grantaire rather than cause a scene.

This morning, Grantaire does not reek of spirits, and his clothes are clean. His skin smells of herbal cologne.

Enjolras indulges Grantaire. He causes a scene.

Enjolras is hardly breathing when he reaches out and palms Grantaire’s cheek. He traces Grantaire’s cheekbone with his thumb. In peaceful repose, their quarrels at rest, Grantaire is lovely. Enjolras runs his thumb over Grantaire’s red lips, and all of a sudden Grantaire sucks the finger into his mouth, greedy. His eyes are closed otherwise, giving every appearance of rest.

Enjolras catches his breath. “If you are awake, then you should be going,” he says. He sounds stern. Yet he pushes his thumb deeper into the wet suction of Grantaire’s mouth. Actions contradict words.

Grantaire’s eyes open, blue flame in the dark. The slow-rising sun cannot match his glow. He looks pointedly at Enjolras and says nothing, his lips and tongue closed around Enjolras’ finger.

“There is no reason that you should stay,” says Enjolras, but then he is helping to guide Grantaire’s head down over his body. Grantaire bends at once, eager.

Together they work Enjolras’ hardening cock into Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire swallows him as soon as permission is indicated, and he demonstrates prodigious skill.

Grantaire is hungry for Enjolras, moving on him, bobbing, sucking, licking, teasing; when he adds the steady stroking of his hand Enjolras nearly comes undone. Instead he forces himself to breathe through it; he calms his racing heart.

He takes control, grasps Grantaire’s hair for leverage. He starts to move and thrust his cock, until he hits the back of Grantaire’s throat. He fucks into Grantaire’s mouth and it feels too good, feels outrageously good, with the doubled advantage of quieting Grantaire. Grantaire seems content to be silenced.

It goes on and on, with neither inclined to seek an end. At last Enjolras warns with a curse and a jolt of his hips, and when Grantaire does not pull back, he spills deep, spurts hot and wet. Grantaire drinks him like his favorite vintage.

Grantaire pulls away, a softly obscene sound. He kisses Enjolras’ thighs. “Now I can be cast out, and go willingly.”

“It is proper that you should go,” agrees Enjolras. He spreads his legs, and tangles them around Grantaire. His hands reach up, to free Grantaire of his clothing. “You must leave at once.” Grantaire’s frame is strong and trim from boxing and dancing, and the fine ripple of his muscles pleases Enjolras. “You are impertinent.”

“Charge me, proud Phoebus,” says Grantaire, letting his garments be tugged off, kicking free of his pants. “I live by your command.”

Enjolras angles his hips so as to leave no mistake as to his intention. He had not known his own intent until his hips moved. Grantaire hesitates, then lets go, when Enjolras indicates the bedside cupboard. Inside is the oil used in their first endeavor, in a ceramic bottle. Grantaire retrieves the bottle, then resumes his seat.

“Well,” says Enjolras, because Grantaire is staring, “you may as well get on with it,” and Grantaire’s finger is slicked wet when it pushes inside Enjolras. Enjolras exhales sharply. He tells his clenched body to relax, and he tries to open up. In time Grantaire has two fingers sliding into him, and they know just how to twist, firing pleasure up his spine.

“Ah,” Enjolras pants. “Ah. Ah.”

“Will you have a third?” Grantaire’s voice is a low murmur. His face is pressed to Enjolras’ thigh, his unshaven cheek tickling Enjolras’ skin. Enjolras shoves back on him, impatient.

Three fingers stretches him to the brink, and Enjolras spreads his legs and bites his lip. Slowly Grantaire works them in and out, until Enjolras is dizzy with their motion. Then, when Enjolras is moaning, Grantaire withdraws his hand, and pours out more oil. He is trembling, and in his reserve wins a tender gaze from Enjolras. Grantaire has proceeded well so far.

Enjolras draws him down. Grantaire’s weight settles atop him, heavy between the legs. Enjolras remembers what Grantaire did when they were like this in reverse the first time, and he tucks his knees to his chest. Grantaire’s cock is hard and seems huge where it curves toward his belly. Enjolras reaches for Grantaire’s cock, feeling it slick with oil, and guides him into place. He breaches himself, pushing the first inches inside while Grantaire lets out a gasp.

Grantaire makes handles of his hipbones, and sinks into Enjolras; too slow, too slow, there’s too much of him, and Enjolras must have the full blow at once. He wraps his arms and legs around Grantaire'a body, pressing him in, taking in more and more. Grantaire shudders but gets the message, drives into him with a hard, sure thrust. Then he holds, sheathed inside Enjolras, waiting for him, giving him time.

Enjolras clings to Grantaire, cleaved open by him, and it’s better and worse than his conjectures. Better, the pain is negligible, and Grantaire incredible; worse, he has never felt so vulnerable, nor less of an expert.

Enjolras licks his lips, and nods to show Grantaire that he can advance, and Grantaire rocks them together with rhythmic fluidity, mindful not to go to slow or too fast. Enjolras runs his nails down Grantaire’s back in wordless approval; he still cannot speak. Above him, Grantaire is whispering endearments.

It takes a while to center himself in this. This is like nothing that’s ever happened before. Enjolras’ active imagination only took him so far. (He’s thought about this, once or twice or on two dozen occasions). There was no way to prepare for this. Grantaire buried inside of him is unfathomable. Enjolras keeps hold of Grantaire, arms around his neck, ankles hooked at his back. There are no inches between them.

He looks up at Grantaire and finds a center: Grantaire watching him, his expression one of awe and ecstasy, the certainty of his steady thrusts. Grantaire does not seem to tire, though sweat paints his hair a darker black. Grantaire’s flexed biceps keep him above Enjolras, using all of the strength in his athlete’s body. His hips are pistons.

Enjolras wants to cry out, and in looking for a means to silence such unabashed sounds, pulls Grantaire to him to kiss. Grantaire ducks in; his mouth opens at once under Enjolras’, and his tongue is bold.

This they have not done before. It was avoided, before, as unnecessary.

To Enjolras’ surprise kissing is electrifying. His eyes open wide with the unexpected sensation. Every touch of Grantaire’s tongue is a spark. Enjolras can push his tongue between Grantaire’s lips, mimicking the action of their bodies, fucking Grantaire’s mouth while Grantaire fucks him: it’s all a delicious cycle, Enjolras is discovering. Hands and mouths and friction and tongues, near-universal delights. Tonight he is also learning what it is to be fucked, and how much he likes it.

He does not know how to say that. But he says “More, more,” and when Grantaire is moving quickly, roughly, with tight snaps of his hips, his hands pinning Enjolras’ wrists to the bed, Enjolras says his name, says “Grantaire,” because Grantaire seems to understand exactly what he needs. 

One of Grantaire’s hands slides between them, a practiced fist on Enjolras’ cock. Grantaire works him from the inside out, trying to have Enjolras spend a second time; it is not long in coming.

He kisses Enjolras throughout, their bodies shuddering together; then Grantaire says, “Can I,” the sweat of exertion shiny on his brow and slipping down his back, his unwavering gaze, a loyal blue.

Enjolras dips his head, nods, and Grantaire kisses him, thrusting fast and urgent, driving hard into Enjolras again and again; and every push satisfies an ache in Enjolras that is newly awakened.

“You,” Grantaire begins, then loses his control, and gives over; he spends deep inside Enjolras. His hands move to frame Enjolras’ hips, keeping him at the perfect cant, their bodies blended, two into one, and Grantaire still spills. Their foreheads are pressed, their eyes staring an half an inch apart. Enjolras watches Grantaire’s eyes turn black as jet, pupils blown with pleasure. 

Grantaire is breathing fast, but recovers fast, and he tilts down to kiss Enjolras’ mouth. A brief brush of lips. Then he eases slowly out of Enjolras, giving the action every attention, careful and wistful. Once free, Grantaire seems to regain his lost voice, and it is as though a dam breaks and all the waters rush out: “You astonish me, Enjolras, by being an acolyte of love as much as war. You are golden Aphrodite caught in dark Ares’ bed. All the gods would come to gaze at you. Why did you let me stay? I am a beggar at the temple. So I ask myself why, and see your wisdom. Already devoted, now I am a fanatic. My altar will burn daily with candles from the sisters and incense from the Far East. I will fashion for it small figurines of Robespierre and Danton and Saint-Just. I will buy a red flag.”

Grantaire has moved to lie next to him, propped sideways in bed, earnest and wary-eyed; Enjolras scrubs a hand through his hair and fights to keep his temper, fights to keep from laughing. “Grantaire,” he tries.

“Of course you must not think me unhappy! No, I have never been a better man; should I cease to be, now, I can say I was content. I would not trade this morning for any weight of gold.” 

“Grantaire--”

“Tell me that I might but stay an hour longer, to look on you and draw,” says Grantaire. “I will be gone before the sun finishes rising.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “Your thoughts turn to art?”

Grantaire shrugs. “When I am near living marble. I have my sketchbook in my bag.” 

Enjolras fights a yawn, then succumbs, showing Grantaire the sort of mood he has slipped into: lazy and content. He sees no reason why Grantaire should go; after what they shared the request is a minor one. If he can trust Grantaire with his body, he can trust the comfort of Grantaire beside him, drawing, otherwise engaged. 

He can feel comfortable enough to nod his head, and stretch out in a becoming sprawl, and blink sleepily while Grantaire sketches. Grantaire holds a stub of charcoal, and his fingers flash across the page; his eyes go from the picture to Enjolras’s form, mapping him; the process is mesmerizing to watch, and Enjolras stays awake. 

After the allotted hour Grantaire puts aside his work, but he does not go. Enjolras reaches for him. 

“I must be on my way,” says Grantaire, getting into bed.


End file.
